The Trick to Remembering is Forgetting
by NightlySnow
Summary: Alfred leads a boring life as a personal trainer at a small, rundown Y in Wyoming. When he meets a certain Arthur Kirkland, things start to change. When Arthur begins to insist that Alfred is actually America's persona, Alfred rethinks who he's spending his time with. As truths unfold, and memories are uncovered, Alfred sees that Art may not be so crazy after all. USUKUS
1. The Folly of Dreams

Hey, I know, another story that I have started without even finishing my earlier three. I'm a horrible person, but I have a good defense! This story was literally flying off of my fingertips. I sat up in bed at roughly 2:30 AM on a Monday morning, only the whirring of my fan to accompany me, and within seconds I was scrambling for my computer. By the time I'd finished typing, my fingertips were sore and I didn't even know what I'd written, or what the point of it was. So, I've added to it, and I'm super duper excited for this one. This will be GREAT I can just sense it with my ultimate superpowers. ;3

Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise, which essentially means that I don't own the delightful majority of the characters introduced in this fic._

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**The Folly of Dreams**

_"I think we dream so we don't have to be apart for so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can be together all the time." _

**―A.A. Milne, _Winnie the Poo_**

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Beneath the flickering red neon lights, Alfred waited, a cigarette firmly stuck between his pointer and middle finger. Smoke was curling from his parted lips, thick and matte, reflecting no light. The chips of ice sunken in the hollows of his eyes were flickering about, absorbing but not reacting. A biker gang was tearing into the parking lot, their hollow engines snarling. The leather jackets washed in red flame, bandanas hugging tight to sweaty foreheads. Grimaces and snarls ranged across the rough, craggy faces, shadow settling in dips and edges. They stalked by Alfred, opening and banging the door to the pub shut behind them. The luminescence still danced along the sleek, painted sides of the motorbikes, frolicking with the fake flames and tempting fate in the panther's jaws.

He was five minutes late.

Alfred flicked the ash that was perilously close to falling off of the end of his cigarette in a natural maneuver, the softer skin between his fingers sliding gently along the textured paper wrapping of the ciggie.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, looking unnaturally dapper in the lights of the hole-in-the-wall. "Smoking isn't considered to be beneficial for one's health, you know," stated a crisp British accent, adjusting the lapels to his black suit. His virescent eyes quickly scanned the rest of Alfred's figure, taking in the jeans and white dress shirt with a disdained glance.

Alfred didn't respond to the British man's jab. "Why did you send for me?" he asked him slowly, taking one more drag of the cigarette before it was plucked from his hand by the nimble digits of his companion, and brought to the other man's lips. Alfred's hands, now that they didn't have something to hold, quickly found their way into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders caving awkwardly inwards to manage the maneuver.

"No reason, really," responded the Brit, stepping further out from the gloom, the glow of the cigarette less obvious in the light. His blond hair, a hue that was a little brighter than Alfred's, was standing on end. Apparently, as well-groomed as the man was, he couldn't quite tame his hair.

Alfred could relate. His hair was certainly better than this man's, but there was always that one stray strand, stubborn in its constant mission to stick out.

"I had to come all the way from my apartment in New York for 'no reason, really'?" said Alfred in disbelief, his posture straightening from where it had been relaxed against the brick exterior of the pub. "I had things scheduled tonight!"

"Things?" responded the accent, one bushy, caterpillar eyebrow raising on its owner's forehead, "what 'things'?" sarcastic, disbelieving.

"Well, you know, things. Like, like, basketball watching, and stuff," Alfred refused to meet those acidic green eyes, gazing huffily in the distance at a flashing stoplight.

"Mm, of course."

A narrowing of sharp blue eyes, a gritting of teeth to bite back a groan of frustration. "Look, if you don't have anything important or even vaguely un-insulting to say, than I'm leaving, Arthur." He finally snapped out, his notorious impatience once more getting the best of him.

"You used my name, how kind of you," once more the sarcastic edge. Alfred had had enough.

"Alright, you know what? I'm done! You win! See ya, bye," he waved vaguely in the direction of Arthur and moved to walk off, only taking one step before a firm hand reached out to grip his shoulder and wheel him around.

"I'm sorry, alright? You know as well as I do that things are far from okay now. We need to discuss it. Fancy yourself a pint?" Arthur was trying, honestly he was, to be cheerful and a tad less caustic about his ways. But he had his fair share of reasons to be negative, and he would exploit them for all they were worth.

Alfred hesitated, his eyes showing that he was considering the Brit's proposal.

After a moment or two of deep thought, he slowly nodded his blond head. "Yeah, sure. But you'd better be nicer. I've about had enough of your shit, and it hasn't even been ten minutes."

And with that simple warning, Arthur crushed Alfred's cigarette beneath his shoe, and the two men walked into the pub, getting a few curious glances before being able to slip, unnoticed, into the crowd of sweaty drinkers. Old country music was warbling its way across the stage, springing from the throat of a washed out girl with drooping eyes and stringy, limp blonde hair.

They took the first free table they saw, in this instance, one closer to the stage. A waitress, her once pristine white apron pockmarked with mysterious stains, her long brown hair pulled up into a ponytail, and almond brown eyes taking in the attractive young men with a gleam of appreciation, came up to them and took their orders, a pint of beer from Alfred and 'I'll have one as well' from Arthur. She took her time in walking away.

Once she was clearly out of earshot, Arthur leaned forward, both hands pressing on the rough wood of the table, and whispered, "Was Operation 0317 successful?" Alfred rolled his eyes in a tired response.

"Yes, yes it was. Our superiors have already briefed me over it." He responded, drumming his fingers on the circular table that Arthur was holding steady.

"And I didn't believe the load of bollocks you told them as soon as it was relayed to me, so spill the true story Alfred," responded Arthur, sitting back in his chair. Alfred was about to open his mouth and question why Arthur didn't just start his interrogation with that sentence instead of asking the totally redundant question of 'was Operation 0317 successful,' but he opted not to push his luck tonight. There was a reason Arthur was considered one of the best in the business, and Alfred wasn't keen on discovering why. Not tonight anyway.

"What does it concern you?" responded the American, cryptically, smiling gratefully as the serving girl returned with their drinks, placing the pints with the solid 'thunk' of glass on wood in front of them.

Once she'd left again, Arthur responded. "It concerns me because I'm supposed to accomplish an assignment that relies very heavily on how yours went. If yours didn't go exactly to plan, then I need to know what I'm in for!" growled Arthur in response, he himself now thoroughly upset with the obscure answers that Alfred was supplying.

"Geez, and they say that I'm impatient," muttered Alfred under his breath before raising his voice to try and calm down the raging Brit across from him. "Look, not everything went exactly to plan, but I accomplished the mission, and that's all that matters. You should be able to follow through on yours without any hitches." His attempt at soothing ruffled feathers had backfired. He hadn't brushed them the right way.

"Without any hitches? You complete and utter twat, what do you not understand about what I'm asking? I just want to know what was different so I can be ready for any surprises." Alfred considered this logic for a moment, debating with himself on whether he really wanted to tell how seriously he'd blundered on his operation. Eventually, he decided to spill the beans.

"Alright, fine, but if you tell this story to the higher-ups, I swear that I will say you're just lying in an attempt to get me kicked out." He narrowed his eyes warningly before beginning his tale.

"Okay, so all was cool. We'd gotten into the city, we were blending in fine, Mattie and me. We'd both even gotten the accents right, and Matt was using that odd ability of his to practically blink out of existence to figure out how to get us closer to our target when it happened. An oddball, completely oblivious Frenchman blundered right into us. The strangest thing of all was that he noticed Mattie, and I couldn't find him at this point. For someone to notice my brother in the middle of a mission isn't an easy thing, ya know?" Arthur waved his hand in acknowledgement, urging Alfred to continue. Alfred huffed, not appreciating how little Arthur reacted to the knowledge he'd just dropped on him. "Well, anyway, this guy invited us to his house that night for a bottle of wine and some information about the area. He'd found out that we were tourists, as he had lived there all his life and had never seen us around before. He seemed to have taken a liking to Matthew, and so of course my brother couldn't possibly say no." Alfred was watching Arthur's facial expressions carefully, waiting for anger to develop on that falsely innocent face. But none came, a mask seemed to have been put on, giving away no emotion.

Clearing his throat, Alfred continued. "Okay, so we abandoned our mission for a little while in favor of enjoying some French culture. Francis was an interesting guy, really, all kinds of stories about the area. And then he mentioned the one thing that we had been sent to find in Caudebec-en-Caux. He told us this legend, which I'll try to tell you.

"There was once a man blessed by the Gods who lived in Caudebec. His strength was great, and he was of a high intelligence. Things would always go well for him, he never had a poor harvest, his wife was happy and a magnificent cook, and he had a firstborn son. But then one day, he forgot to give thanks to the Gods for a particularly good harvest season. In a furious retaliation, they took his wife and son from him, jealously hoarding them in their underworld kingdoms. The man, in a fit of sadness, tore his clothes and wept, great big tears that stained the ground. He wept for so long, and so hard that he eventually froze, stuck there in the form of a statue for all eternity. And hidden inside of him, was the key to the universe, the key to happiness. A mythical key, quite literally a key, had taken the place of his heart, meant only for the man who deserved it most to retrieve." He shook his head and sat back, taking a long, refreshing sip of beer.

"After this story, Francis began to talk in French to Matthew and I quickly checked out of the conversation, obviously, because who wants to listen to French people talk?" He stuck his tongue out for a moment. "By the end of the night, I pretty much knew that Matthew wasn't going to want to leave, so I said I'd meet him back at the apartment and left. But on my walk back, the strangest thing happened." He paused a moment, running a hand through his hair. "Now don't laugh when I tell you this, but I heard someone singing. And it was an old song, but the voice was misty, hollow, as if echoing down from a long time ago. Obviously, my curiosity got the best of me, and so I went in search of it. By the time I did find the owner's whereabouts, the sun was beginning to crest the horizon. But when I got there, all I could see was a big rock. It wasn't a statue, so I thought nothing of it, until this literal ghost of a little boy popped out from behind it and ran through me, laughing, with a girl following him. That little boy was the strangest creature, all white-haired and red-eyed. His companion was a little more regular, brown hair and green eyes, even if she did dress like a boy. Needless to say, 'cause you know ghosts are scary, I ran as far away from there as I could. That was fucking creepy man!" He said, tagging the last sentence on to protest the silent, exasperated shaking of Arthur's head that was going on across the table.

"Well, anyway, I sent Mattie back to retrieve the key thing from the rock, because I figured that surely, when you see creepy ghost children there, that had to be _the _rock, _the_ statue, ya know?" Arthur nodded absently.

"And now here I am, telling you a little more detail. But it was nothing scary, nothing horrible. Nothing you really needed to know," he glared accusingly, finishing off his beer in one large gulp.

Arthur rolled his eyes in response and took a swig of his own beer. "Tell me, what did this Frenchman look like?"

"Well, he had long blond hair, and a bit of a scruff on his chin. His eyes were about as blue as mine are, and he was always grinning and laughing an 'honhonhon' French laugh. He was also very touchy, not to say that has anything to do with appearance. He just seemed to really enjoy petting Mattie's hair, or the side of his face…" he trailed off awkwardly, spinning his mug around on the table, listening to the hollow sliding sound as it did the 360 turns.

Arthur was looking a little perturbed now, his bushy eyebrows furrowing to very nearly create one extremely long fuzzy caterpillar. Alfred almost wanted to reach over and squeeze the two lines of hair together to do just that, for kicks, but he restrained himself once more. He valued his hand.

"Francis…. Francis… Francis… Francis Bonnefoy? Do you know his last name?" suddenly demanding, Arthur stood up once more, smacking his palms theatrically against the table, messing it horrendously so that his beer spilled up and over the sides, staining the wood darker. Some neighbors glanced over through hooded eyes before returning to the bottoms of their drinks. Alfred was staring, wide-eyed, up at the nearly insane Briton, pushing himself slightly backwards in his chair. "Er… Yeah, I think that's his last name. If you'd like, I can call Mattie up and confirm, but I'm pretty sure that's his last name."

Arthur swore under his breath and reached out to slap the side of Alfred's head. The American yelped, rubbing the injured area with a look of mutiny in his eyes. "What the hell was that for!?" he yelled, not caring about the attention they were attracting now.

"You are an utter nitwit, a twat, a complete duffer! How could you possibly have let him get so close to your operation!" Arthur was seething, his green eyes like poison with their accusations.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know what you're talking about!" responded Alfred in equal fervor, all attempts at censoring himself, or at least what he considered to be censorship, flying out the window.

"Francis Bonnefoy is one of the best agents that the French government has to offer. How on this goddamn Earth did you not know that?"

"It didn't even hurt the operation, Arthur, Jesus Christ, stop being so damn paranoid!" the exclamation points were coming out now, in all their affronted, demanding glory.

"Alfred, you and your brother are going to be the end of this operation, hell, the end of this entire organization! I have half a mind to beat you into a bloody pulp and be done with it!" Arthur was veritably trembling by this point, his control swaying. He wanted to pick chairs up and throw them, destruct and destroy. But he couldn't. An agent tried his best not to cause a ruckus, and he and Alfred were certainly doing enough to spark one now.

Alfred slowly raised his hands in surrender. "Hey now, easy there buddy. Take some deep breaths, yeah? Or at least, let's take this outside before things get a little too out of control?" suggested Alfred, before Arthur took him to his word and was wrenching the blue-eyed boy out with a bruising grip on his forearm.

The waitress yelled in protest at their leaving without paying, but she eventually gave up after Arthur had quite literally chucked Alfred into the back of his black Mercedes.

A disgruntled Alfred righted himself from where he'd smashed his face into the smooth black leather, rubbing at his throbbing nose and sitting so that he was seated comfortably, and normally, in the back of the car. It was probably best he was back here anyway, easier to avoid Arthur's swinging fists.

The furious British man slid into the driver's seat and started the car, not responding to Alfred's question about when he was going to be able to pick up his own black Mercedes.

And the worst part was, as Alfred sat in the back, tapping his knees, replete with nervous energy, that he had no idea where he was being taken. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, he decided to break it.

"Er, Arthur, where are we going?" he asked nervously, not entirely sure just how volatile his companion was.

"Somewhere," was the curt response. Alfred hummed absently, turning his head to gaze out the window. Considering the situation, he was taking things much too easily. But he didn't care, for now he was relatively content, and he had a pint of beer resting comfortably in his stomach. It didn't do much to hinder his motor capabilities, but it did help him to be a little more content with his lot in life.

By the time the car finally pulled over, with a crunching of gravel under rubber tires and against other smaller bits of rock, Alfred was beginning to nod off. He was tired, it had been a long day full of paper work and photocopying, and he just wanted to fall into his bed back at his apartment in New York, a thirty minute drive from the pub he'd had to meet Arthur at.

When he snapped awake, he was greeted with the familiar ceiling of his bedroom, bland and white. His alarm was shrilling its jaunty morning bell, letting him know that it was time for him to get up to go to his job at the YMCA, and that he was most certainly not some awesome spy, working to save the world. Rubbing his eyes and glaring angrily at the alarm clock that had woken him so abruptly from his sleep, he sat up, reproachfully smacking the rude timekeeper off of his side table. It hit the wooden floor with a sharp crack, the keener bits of it gouging slightly into the wood. But Al didn't feel terribly guilty, the place was old, decrepit, and really a sorry excuse for an apartment. The plumbing was constantly having difficulty, enough of it to give Alfred the heebie jeebies at the thought of having to drink and cook with the sink water. The walls were crumbling and bits of plaster and wallpaper were peeling away in great, fantastic strips. Alfred had tried tearing a small, stray tendril off, only to succeed in moving a good-sized piece from the partition. Ever since, he'd just had to find ways to keep himself from repeating the gesture in his spare time. The wood floors were scratched, nicked, and splintery, the appliances rusty, white and old, and the neighbors loud in all of their physical endeavors. It was a shabby thing, but it was his home.

As he slipped his work clothes on, which consisted of a white, sleeveless, light shirt and black basketball shorts, and gym shoes of his color choice, he struggled to remember the dream. But it slid away from him as the morning progressed. By the time he was eating his granola, the only thing he could remember was sitting down with a man named Arthur, and when he got in his shabby old jeep, the only remnant was a pair of flashing green eyes, and to those he clung with a fanatic determination.

He rolled into the Y's parking lot with a casual, natural gesture, taking the parking spots farthest from the doors. He liked the exercise, which was probably why he worked here, but he didn't like having to deal with the people. He was a personal trainer, and unfortunately for him, a good-looking one. Girls loved to come exercise with him, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. His blond hair, that was always reasonably put together with the exception of one rogue curl that always flew independently from the rest of his hair, his whimsical blue eyes, and his solid, strong stature was a very appealing option for the majority of the younger women at the gym. His age, a young twenty-two, helped him as well. Unfortunately for these diehard fans, he didn't roll that way. He'd found this out about himself in the ninth grade, when his friends started talking about all the hot Junior girls that populated the hallways, and his mind was straying towards the even hotter Junior boys.

His family had accepted him. They didn't much care which side he rooted for, he was still the same to them. And he knew that he'd lucked out in that aspect. What he didn't plan on doing with his life was working as a personal trainer with a major in Astronomy. He hadn't gone to school for so many years only to be some nameless employee at a YMCA in the small, little known town of Terril, Wyoming, his degree rotting in the closet along with all of his dreams and aspirations. He'd accepted his lot in life, as miserable as it was, and he was slowly learning to be happy with it.

Once inside of the air-conditioned building, Alfred smiled wearily at the desk secretary, the pretty, brown-haired girl returning his smile with one of her own. They were relatively close, each having dropped their goals to work at this small, rundown little Y. It didn't even have a swimming pool, but the few people who worked in the town went there. For the life of him, Alfred couldn't explain why there was a YMCA in such a useless little place, but he supposed that it was the company's business and not his.

"Good morning, Eliza," he said to his only other friend in the workplace.

"_Jó reggelt_, Alfred," she said, using the Hungarian term for the words he'd just voiced to her. Her accent wasn't too heavy, he could still understand her, after all, but it was there, licking each syllable into a different shape than how a person growing up with English would have pronounced it.

As he clocked in and moved to the main gym area, where all the treadmills and ellipticals and dumbbells and every other basic exercise equipment you could think of lay, he noticed Elizaveta's eyes light up once they caught on someone just behind him. He didn't make an overly obvious turn, but he did pitch his head just slightly in the direction she was gazing, and was greeted with the sight of a man with completely white-hair and disturbingly red eyes. A grin was on his features, though it seemed to look mischievous, and as Eliza ran out from behind her desk, he swooped her into his arms, pressing hasty, desperate kisses to her cheeks and lips. Alfred felt quite awkward watching this go down, and so he hurried himself into the gym. The secretary was crying, burying her face in the paler man's shoulder, her arms wrapped crushingly tight around him. Alfred didn't know the man, or his history with Eliza, but he could only assume that it had been a while since they'd seen each other.

And so the day started on an interesting, curious note. Alfred was bored silly by the time it was lunch break, and so he noticed the statured man who walked through the door as he sat there munching on his turkey sandwich. The fellow caught his eye because he could remember him, a small flame of the dream reviving enough for Alfred to recognize him from it. Those emerald eyes glanced languidly about the beaten down interior of the YMCA, conveying their disdain for the gym with a single sweep.

But when those eyes found Alfred, they paused, and the American shivered. The jealous green of them traveled slowly down his form, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat, his sandwich now all but forgotten.

Eliza had been replaced with another secretary, obviously being given leave for her reuniting with her significant other. This one was a simple girl, Ukrainian, and Alfred didn't know her that well at all. She had short yellow hair, and seemed to have a pentient for overalls, as every time he did see her, which was seldom, she was dressed in the obscene things. This strange man walked sharply up to the counter, wearing an outfit like Alfred's, with the exception of a dark blue t-shirt covering his torso instead of a white sleeveless one. The girl blushed at the sight of this attractive man, even if he did have some impressive eyebrows, and was all too eager to help him. Not that she wasn't eager to help anyone, she seemed of a very amiable disposition.

After a quick moment of conversation, Alfred noticed that her finger was pointing in his direction, and the man soon turned to gaze at him, those eyes that hid so much resting on him once more. Alfred had finally finished his lunch, which meant that he was going to have to get back to work, which was a disappointment, really, as all he wanted to do was sit there and watch this fascinating new figure.

Sliding out of the rickety chair he was sitting at, that was in front of a table that was even worse off than the seat, he walked into the gym, not noticing that the man was following him, with steps that were light and smooth as silk.

Once he'd gotten to his normal space in the gym, he turned and was greeted with the stranger who was standing rather close behind him. Swearing, he jumped back, promptly slamming into a rack of medicine balls. Rubbing his jeering spine, he glared, hot-temperedly at the man. "Jesus, you shouldn't scare someone like that," he complained, eventually abandoning his back to hold his hand out. "I'm Alfred. I take it that I'm to be your personal trainer from here on out?" he asked, smiling slightly. The man managed a smirk, one side of his mouth tilting up into a cocky expression.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Alfred. My name is Arthur Kirkland, and yes, I do believe that you are correct in your rather rude assumptions," he took the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake before releasing.

Alfred was taken aback by the frank way about the British man, and the British accent itself. Though, it wasn't like there was a small amount of cultures and races in Terril, Wyoming. He'd just never seen a Brit here, of all places, before.

"Er, alright then, well let's get started," and with that, he began to lead Arthur through the basics, receiving the sarcastic responses that the man seemed all too fond of giving out with a deadpan expression. He had tried to cheerfully ignore them at first, but after a while they just got too frequent to do that without seeming like a complete and utter idiot.

By the end of the session, both of them were positively soaked with sweat. It had been a long time since he'd had to actually lay down, spreadeagled on the ground to fully regain himself. He was heaving in air like bellows on a fire, his shirt dark with sweat, and his face still dripping the salty substance. His eyes were closed, and he could hear Arthur's frantic breathing just next to him.

Lolling his head to the side, he met eyes with his new companion, breath whooshing still in and out of his mouth, fleeing free from the constraints of his lungs and being replaced with even more prisoners. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked, grinning exhaustedly at the equally fatigued Briton.

"Yes," a gasp of air, "same time tomorrow. But I was curious…" his breath caught up with him there, "as to whether or not you could join me for dinner tonight?" he asked, his face working into a red flush, embarrassment darkening his already burning face further.

Alfred was frozen a moment, his fingers working a slow rhythm on the padded floor of the gym. "Well…" he trailed, squeezing his eyes before sitting up, groaning slightly in protest at the complaints his muscles made towards the action, "I guess I can." At Arthur's annoyed expression, he quickly amended himself. "I mean, yeah, sure, dinner tonight. Sounds cool," he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes skipping to the wall behind Arthur in favor of looking at the only person who seemed to both piss him off and attract him at the same time.

"Excellent. We will meet at the local Steakhouse at six o'clock sharp. I expect you to be there," he says, his sharp eyes flicking judgementally over Alfred's filthy appearance. He then slowly got to his feet, hissing out his pain through his teeth and walked past, brushing his fingers over Alfred's sweaty head as he left.

Alfred watched the Englishman go, his eyes dipping up and down Arthur's figure. He was certainly an attractive being, one that, though he was slightly shorter than Alfred himself, was tightly corded with muscle. There was an air about him that warned one to not piss him off, maybe it was the twist to his smile, or perhaps the way he could narrow his eyes, or the way he held himself. He was fascinating, and precise with each movement, not throwing away any good energy, if he could help it. He was a lion, much like one of the majestic beasts decorating the British coat of arms. His blond head was a riot of messy hair, green eyes poisonous, alluring disks. He had an impressive set of bushy eyebrows, veritable caterpillars snoozing above his eyes, lively with every facial expression he sent people's ways. And he was exactly the man who Alfred had dreamed about.

Shivering, and shaking his head, the American eventually got to his feet, grateful that Arthur had been his last appointment for the day. Staggering out of the gym, after clocking out, he found his way to the breaking down jeep and got in, taking a few minutes to get it up and running before peeling out of the parking lot. His left hand were slippery on the steering wheel, sweat still dotting the skin there. The right was running through his hair, attempting to stick that obstinate strand of hair down with the rest of his mop, but it was being uncooperative.

Pulling up to his apartment building, he sat back in his seat, closing his eyes and resting his head on the headrest. He ran his fingers over the steering wheel, remembering what little he could of his parents. They weren't around a lot when he was younger, which was probably partly why they were so okay with him being gay. They didn't know him enough for which gender he liked to make any sort of a splash or difference whatsoever. A good thing and a bad thing, in many ways. His mother was of a darker skin, Native American in all of her ways. He had never really known her name, but she had always been kind and coddling, the way any real mother would be. Her warm brown eyes, and silky black hair were his strongest memories of her. Her sun-browned skin and callused fingers, the smell of nature about her. His father was French, blue-eyed and blond-haired. His accent ran thick in his speech, making him incapable of being understood. He looked a lot like Alfred, but he didn't acknowledge him as a son of his own blood, so Alfred never really considered him his real father. Alfred had been lost, mentally, for a long time, and he was willing to possibly lay that down to his hopeless situation right now. Failures were always that, failures. They would never change.

Sighing, he clicked open his door and hopped onto the pavement, closing and locking it behind him. He trudged his way into his stodgy little apartment, slamming the squealing door shut behind him and heading to the kitchen. He was starving, and he wanted one of America's iconic snack foods; a Twinkie. So he'd be damned if he didn't get one. He fished one quickly out of the box and quickly tore off the wrapper, taking a nice, big bite from the cream-stuffed pastry. He was a physical trainer, and he really shouldn't be eating the fatty food, but he couldn't help himself. Today had been a strange, exciting day, and he felt like he deserved something terribly unhealthy as a reward.

Leaning back against the cold, unwashed, tile counter and licking any remaining Twinkie goodness from his fingertips, Alfred mulled over what he was going to wear that evening. Was it worth impressing Arthur? Did he even know if the guy liked him? Groaning, he pushed away from the counter with a quick ripple movement of his body, stalking over to his room and throwing the closet doors open. His icy eyes, cold with determination, skipped over the outfits that he had in his possession. It wasn't much in the way of anything. He'd pretty much resorted to only wearing work out gear, finding that he both looked good in it and it was comfortable, with the added bonus of practically being his job uniform. It took a fair bit of digging before he found a button down, blue shirt that matched the color of his eyes. Further digging unveiled a nice set of dress pants, khaki in color and reaching down to his ankles in length. Even further back than those was a pair of black darker brown dress shoes and a matching belt. Content with his outfit, he laid it out on his bed before going out to stare at the nasty excuse of a television that he owned.

He still had a good four hours until he had to be at the Steakhouse, so he figured that was more than enough time to catch some TV. Settling down, he squirmed a bit uncomfortably on the springy couch, the cushions stained and worn thin to the couch frame. A bottle of water had been retrieved from the fridge, and he crammed his finger down on the power button, waving the controller forcefully at the dormant TV until a flicker of life showed in the depths of its black face. A spasm of light appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again as the television really kicked into high gear. It was an old thing from when he was younger, and he'd decided to take it with him as he left the house off to college. It had wasted away in the back of his jeep until he managed to get a hold of this apartment, which he'd been living in for several years now.

As he settled down for some good, relaxing TV watching, he found that he was struggling to stay awake. He was exhausted, both from his sleep deprived previous night and the exhausting work out he'd managed to do with Arthur.

He was rudely awoken by the furious, rapid fire knocking on his apartment door. Groggily blinking at the trembling slab of wood, he fell off of the couch, landing painfully on hands and knees, before half crawling, half stumbling, and half walking over to open it.

His hands fumbled over the rusted door handle before turning it open. Unfortunately for the still only half-awake American, there was a very pissed off, very much awake Briton on the other side of the door, and within seconds of it being opened, he was barging in, marching his way through the entrance way with a vigor and determination unlike anything Alfred had ever seen before. Blinking widely for a moment, Alfred finally managed to piece enough thoughts together to realize that he'd probably missed the date, which would explain why Arthur was now so thoroughly displeased with him.

"You," began the angry man, "are a bloody wanker, you know that? A great big arse who deserves nothing better than to be chucked down the nearest sewer pipe." He was seething, the rage practically steaming from him in the colder atmosphere of Al's apartment. Al winced, closing one of his eyes and peering guiltily out of the other one at the raging Arthur.

"I really out to sterilize you so that no more of your rude, uncouth manners can be bred down to future generations," threatened Arthur, reaching out to grip Al's chin firmly between his thumb and the rest of his fingers. "Fortunately for you, you are too damn attractive for me to do anything of that nature to you, so count your bloody stars." He growled out, though his grip was considerably softer than his voice and body were.

Alfred, finally seeing an opening where he could get a word in edgewise, took the bait up eagerly. "Dude, I'm sorry!" he started off his defensive with a rather poor sentence. "I slept in, ya know how it is! A guy's gotta sleep," he shrugged his shoulders, though shame could be traced in every single slope and line and contour of him. "I really didn't plan on skipping, I swear it." He said, raising his hands in a pleading gesture. But before he made it any farther in his word choice, he noticed the way Arthur's eyes were crawling, almost predatory, over his face. "Er, Arthur?" he asked, unsure and nervous. Now that he thought back on it, this man did seem a little odd. I mean, who asks their physical trainers to dinners right after their first meeting?

Before he could think much more, however, Arthur found another occupation for him to pursue. This one came in the form of a heated, urgent kiss, and quick, eager fingers.

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So, how are we feeling it? I'm pumped for this. Whoo hop!

Review, appreciate, silently adore, hate, detest, glare at the computer screen, do what you will! xD

Until next time! Next chapter might be up within a couple of days, I'm getting a ton of inspiration for this dealio, and I want to write all the shits before I lose it.


	2. A History of Revolution

Here we are! Next up, _A Flower's Resilience. _For those of you following this story, I hope you enjoy it. :D

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. The words I use during the American Revolution scene are direct quotes from __Hetalia: Axis Powers__, and they are not of my own creation._

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**A History of Revolution**

_"When we are tired, we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago." _

**―Friedrich Nietzsche**

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Alfred wheeled back from the kiss with all the wild cluelessness of someone who had utterly no idea what was going on.

"Dude, what the hell!" he yelped, brushing his hand over his lips while leveling an impressive glare at Arthur.

An expression of frustration flicked across Arthur's face, gone faster than Alfred could blink. But he was sure he'd seen it.

"My apologies, Alfred, I shouldn't have been so rash," he said, stepping back towards the door. "Have a nice night." The man slammed the entryway closed behind him, leaving Alfred standing in the middle of his living room, confused, exhilarated, and curious about what the next day would bring.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the ends of the strands, he clapped a light rhythm on the cheap, cracked countertop, his palm smacking flat against the white tile. Now that he knew dinner wasn't on, he walked over to his fridge and pulled it open, having to bend over to peer inside to see the contents. He blew an air bubble into the side of his mouth, his cheek puffing out. There was nothing but some old apples and a long-expired cottage cheese tub. Closing the door and peering about the dilapidated kitchen, Alfred accepted the fact that he was going to need to go out and get something to eat. Delivery was practically non-existent in this town.

Because it was the middle of July in Wyoming, Alfred elected to snag his old, ratty brown jacket from where it had been thrown over the back of a chair. He pulled it down before opening the door, and very nearly stepped out onto a brown paper bag. Peering down at it, his head tilted with curiousity, Alfred shifted backwards and squatted to look at the paper, seeing if there was a name or something written on it. Incidentally, it was his own name that was scrawled across the brown paper. Peering about the hall, he shrugged, picked it up, and closed the door to his apartment, taking the bag to his kitchen and opening it.

What was inside was perhaps one of his favorite meals in the entire world. A cheeseburger, and it was a really nice looking cheeseburger at that. The buns looked perfectly toasted, dark gold on the top tapering down to a nice lighter bread color where it met the toppings and paddy. The meat itself was dark brown, and Alfred secretly hoped it was medium rare on the inside. Juice was leaking out from where it had been jostled against the sides of the plastic box it was placed in, dripping down onto the crisp green of the lettuce leaves beneath it. Tomato was on top of the paddy, brilliantly red atop the melted cheese, with the mix of purple hues that constituted onion accompanying it.

And then there were the fries and the coke. The fries themselves were golden brown, crisp, with those little edges where potato skins had resiliently stuck. They were salty, greasy, and breathtaking.

Mouth watering, Al sat down, took the cheeseburger and French fries out, and began to inhale them. They were both gone in fifteen minutes. Alfred could not be commended for his manners, that was for sure. Taking a paper towel from the roll just next to the sink in front of him, he wiped his mouth where a smear of ketchup was taking shelter, dotting the whiteness of the paper towel with the stark redness of the ketchup.

Finished with the meal, he dipped over to get a drink of water with one of the only unbroken glasses in the place. He'd brought his own with him when he moved in, but events had caused a good portion of them to be lost, stolen, or broken. He sucked down two glasses of the tasteless liquid before realizing that the only person who would have dropped that off was Arthur. How in the hell did he know that Alfred liked hamburgers? And how did he know which way he liked them? Did they have the same taste preferences? Staring dazedly out the window, Alfred shook his head. It was no doubt just a lucky guess. It's not like someone liking hamburgers medium rare was a weird thing.

He abandoned the coat, slid out of his work clothes, pulled on boxers and fell into bed. His mind was reeling with the day's events. He didn't want to be some stupid teen in those ridiculous love stories, but he could still feel the faint press of Arthur's lips on his own. Fighting the urge to reach up and touch where he'd been kissed, Alfred forced himself onto his stomach and sighed a rattling breath, burying his face in his mattress, rubbing it back and forth before yawning and resting his cheek on the dirty sheets. It had been a while since he'd washed them…

Rain raked its way across the mud, burrowing with a savage intensity into the muck that was sucking at the boots of the men around Alfred. A gun was trembling in his slippery grip, his palms sliding over the smooth wood and metal contraption, his quivering not making focusing it any easier.

On the other end of his rifle stood Arthur. No, that wasn't right, not Arthur; England. Those green eyes gazed at him, and as Alfred watched, something cracked. What had been a shadowy form of anger and exasperation shattered into an expression of complete and utter heartbreak. Those eyes held more memories, memories that tugged irritatingly at Alfred's memory, but were unable to hold a grip.

"Hey Britain," he said, voice surprisingly steady considering the environment and predicament he was currently in. "All I want, is my freedom. I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother," he said the words with a weary kind of disgust. This war had taken a lot out of him, the darkness of the mud painting every feature of his uniform with its filthy brown hue. The rain was merciless. "From now on," conviction rang steady, "consider me independent!" it felt satisfying to say those words, like he'd finally done something right for a change. His grip steadied, courage and a kind of confidence making him stand a little straighter.

That was when Britain, or England as he'd always called him, broke. Those generally welcoming green eyes, like a Christmas tree around the holidays, were like broken bottles that one would find strewn about a tavern; lonely, forgotten. England lunged forward, his feet sucking out of the bed with surprising ease as he deftly used his bayonet to sail America's rifle out of his hands.

Alfred watched, dismay making him shrink back, terror lighting in those previously steely blue eyes. England's teeth were grit together in a savage sort of anger, his smaller, compacter body fairly shaking with it.

His remarkably bushy eyebrows were leaning forward to glower over his eyes, taking on a character of their own. Betrayal was there now, and Alfred realized how easily he could read this dangerous creature in front of him. He was demanding indpendence from the world's greatest Empire.

But he refused to step down, even as England's bayonet was leveled square with his face. His jaw set, his eyes glaring. He'd die for his freedom.

"I won't allow it! You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" England's voice was jumping from octave to octave, wavering and uncontrollable in its owners loss.

"Ready! Aim!" called the French troops flanking either side of Alfred, all of their rifles and bayonets pointed towards the beleaguered British Empire. Alfred stared, cross-eyed, at the nasty weapon pointing between his eyes. England was holding it firm, his movements as calculated as they'd ever been. The country had killed other countries before. He'd murdered, slain, and gotten over it. Who was Alfred to think he was an exception to this?  
Fear began to fizzle through him, prickling at his heart and pulse.

And then the weapon slid away, the young America's eyes widening with surprise.

"There's no way I can shoot you. I can't," murmured England then, his voice a sorry tableau of pain and deprivation. This wasn't the same England that Alfred had known. He had changed. The rifle was tossed to the ground, splashing into the rain-soaked mud before being joined by its owner.

England fell spectacularly, the white and red of his uniform marred with brown stains from where the muck arced about him and fell. One hand was digging into that slippery, slimy substance, the other moving to press its palm into his face, as if by doing so it would hide the tears, it would help him ignore what he'd lost.

"Why!" he begged, his voice despondent, "Dammit, why! It's not fair," his voice began to tremble with the strength it was costing him to keep from sobbing. Sniffles were emanating from the sorry huddle of fabric at Alfred's feet, shoulders shaking and body doubled over on itself.

"You know why," Alfred said, hating to see the man who had raised him fall to such horrible depths. He didn't want to see him cry; he'd never seen England cry before. America's own eyes softened at that point, rounded and tinged with the sympathetic blue of the endless cerulean skies he was so renowned for.

"What happened? I remember when you were great." But Alfred knew what had happened. As Britain cried on his knees in front of him, America knew. It was the wealth, the power, that came with becoming an Empire. It was the knowledge that no one, not even Rome, could stop you. It was the knowledge htat you were the world. England had lost touch with America in his quest for becoming an Empire. This was punishment for both of them.

Turning from the heartwrenching sight, Alfred gestured at his men, or rather Francis's, to follow him, turning his back on the only world he'd ever known.

Alfred woke up crying. The tears were rolling freely down his cheeks, curving along the path of his mouth and dripping onto the sheets of his bed, leaving little dots where they'd fallen to their grave. His throat was sore, his hands clenching the mattress like it was the rifle that had been wrenched from his hands in his dream.

Coughing out a sob, Alfred slowly pushed himself up from the position he'd woken up in. Sitting on the backs of his calves, he sniffled and wiped his runny nose with the heel of his palm, eyes marked out with a ring of red.

Shakig his head, he forced himself to remember that _it was just a dream. No biggie._ But no matter what he told himself, he could smell that mud, that disgusting cloying stench that could very staunchly layer the back of one's tongue for weeks. He could feel the muck pulling at his boot, threatening to take it off altogether, the rain pitter-pattering on his shoulders and head, drumming a somehow reassuring melody on his blue jacket. He could hear the voices of the French soldiers, see the crown of Arthur… England's bowed head.

Coughing spastically, Alfred smacked his forehead with his palm and eventally forced himself to get ready for the day. Driving to work, he found that his mind just wouldn't get off of what he'd dreamt, obsessed with it. He wans't forgetting that dream, unlike most others. He could remember every single itsy-bitsy detail by lunchtime.

And when Arthur walked through the door, the man's similar appearance to the England in Alfred's dream almost knocked the American flat to the floor.

He managed a shy, nervous smile at Arthur before leading him back to the area where they would be training for the day.

As they both moved into warmups, the atmosphere was suitably awkward. Neither wanted to talk about what had happened the previous night.

"Thanks for the uh… For the cheeseburger," Alfred finally spoke up, bending to stretch his calves.

"Pardon? Oh, yes, of course. It wasn't a problem, Am-Alfred," said Arthur, catching himself before he used what would be Alfred's country name. Luckily for the Briton, Alfred was the typical, oblivious American, so the catch flew right over his head.

They fell easily into their routine from yesterday, amping up the reps and cursing at the complaints of sore, aching muscles. When they were both doing push ups on the gym floor, Arthur spoke up.

"Alfred… Do you think we could talk later tonight? There's something I really need to bring up." Al didn't see a problem with it so he nodded his head.

"Yeah, sure dude. My place or yours?"

"Er, mine would probably be more suitable," said Arthur, blushing very faintly, though Alfred couldn't fathom why. Once done with their workout, Alfred hitched a ride with Arthur back to the Englishman's place. He knew that it wasn't exactly later in the day, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do, and besides, he might as well save on gas.

Pulling into the apartment building that Arthur was holed up in, Alfred let out a low whistle. "Wow, dude, nice digs." He laughed, his blue eyes flickering from one overly done patio square to the next, looking all the way up the six story building. Stepping out of Arthur's admittedly very nice European style car, Alfred nervously ran a hand through his hair. Honestly, he wans't high class enough for such an obviously rich guy to have taken an interest in. All the same, that wouldn't stop him from checking out Arthur's home.

Arthur lived on the sixth floor, at the end of the hallway. The door was painted a nice, sensible black with attractive silver numbers along its bottom edge indicating the apartment number.

Entering into the apartment was another ordeal altogether.

The first thing Alfred saw was the extremely impressive widescreen TV set up against a caramel-colored wall, over a ginormous fireplace. In front of the blackscreen was a living room set of sleek, black leather furniture, with spotless steel legs supporting the main body. The furniture pieces were lower to the ground, but simple. The table in front of the large sofa was a glass mesa, clear and sporting a flower vase containing white lilies. A black leather chair was to the right of the table, and a lamp to the left of the chair arm, functioning as the only source of light in the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows decorated each side of the fireplace, spotless and without a smudge. Alfred almost wanted to smack his hand against the pristine glass to indicate that there was at least some barrier between himself and a six-story fall. Walkin through the entrance hall and into the previously-marveled living room, Alfred found that a kitchen set with stainless steal appliances and marvelous black marble countertops was squatting to his right, while an office and then another hallway was to his left.

Unfortunately for Alfred, he didn't get to go see what was down that hallway, having to instead follow Arthur into the kitchen.

"Would you care for a cup of tea? Or perhaps some coffee?" asked Arthur, a small smile quirking his normally straight face as he saw his companion perk up at the mention of coffee. Just how he'd always remembered Alfred, too, to prefer coffee over tea.

He set to making the two beverages, tea for himself, and while he did, he noticed Alfred's eyes crawling around the space.

"I've gotta say, Arthur, I never really took you for this kind of a guy," the gym trainer finally spoke up, gesturing about him with his arms. "I mean, this is so… Clean… So modern."

Arthur had to hide the disappointment he felt when Artie didn't fall from Al's lips. That was practically his pet name for Arthur, no matter how much the Briton complained about it. Arthur would give anything to have Alfred call him that again.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, I guess I just always thought you were more into the antiques, the old stuff. I imagined you…" Alfred seemed to trail off, confusion making him pause. "I saw? Imagined? You know what, whatever. This is a cool apartment."

Arthur felt a flutter of hope. "Thank you, I'm not a huge fan of it myself, but thank you."

A ruminating silence followed, with Arthur considering how to go about telling Alfred what he really was and with Alfred wondering what in the hell was wrong with himself.

Once the coffee and tea were served, Arthur just nursed his cup, his lips worrying along the rim of the tea cup but not actually sipping any of the flavored water.

He did notice the face Alfred made when he sipped his coffee however.

"You don't like it?" a passing comment, dreary really.

"Dude, you've always been horrible at making coffee. I don't know what I was expecting," laughed Alfred before he froze, terror icing over his face. "Er, don't kick me out! Sorry, I was probably talking about someone else…" he trailed off, furiously sipping at the disgusting coffee.

Arthur was very far from kicking Alfred out though. A childishly gleeful gleam was in his eyes.

"Alfred, let me get straight to the point." He paused, waiting to get the American's full attention. Once he had it, he resumed. "You're the personification of America. You are America, the United States of America, and we've finally found you."

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Thoughts? Dreams? Aspirations? Criticisms? Adorations?

Let me know what you thought, I adore reviews, and I promise that I don't bite.

Toodaloo!


	3. Lost America

Thursday, and we all know what that means!  
Update time! Yay.

So I hope y'all enjoy this chapter. And _thank you so much_ for the encouragement. I love all of you.

**Official Cake:** Aw, thanks. Yeah, I got to re-watch that Hetalia episode, so that was fun. I enjoyed writing it, though I struggled so much with trying to put those emotions into words. I always have difficulty doing that, you know? It's like, I want the reader to feel what I'm feeling, but I'm not sure how to go about making that happen, ya know? Thank you for the review, you made my day. :)

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia._

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**Lost America**

_"Pretend it doesn't hurt, and hope like hell that one day it doesn't anymore." _

**―C.C. Hunter,_ Taken at Dusk_**

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Silence fell after Arthur's loaded sentence. Against Alfred's better judgement, his brain began to make connections, following that ever-present, human desire to be special and stand out from the 'normal' and 'regular' people out there. If he really was the United States of America, than it would explain that odd dream. It would explain why he seems to know Arthur on a slightly different level.

But that couldn't be possible.

Alfred laughed obnoxiously. "Haha, yeah right, nice joke," he said, stowing that small belief that he _could be_ in the back of his head.

Arthur seemed to really get fed up with him at that point. "Oh, belt up! I know you're in there, America, goddamnit, I _know that you are in there,_" desperation, and an insane desire for the United States that he was speaking of was leaking into his voice, making it tremble and convulse as it slid around the solid rock that was lodged in his throat. "Please, come back, America, come back," he moaned, resting his elbows on the table and pushing his fingers through his already wild blond hair, pressing his thumbs painfully into his forehead.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably, staring out the window to give the other man some privacy.

"Who are you anyway?" he asked, unable to hold the silence. At Arthur's blank expression, he rephrased his question. "How would you know about a living America? Why do you seem so crazy about it? Do you want to become a citizen or somethin'? 'Cause let me tell you, it isn't all it's cracked up to be." He spun the coffee mug around on the marble of the bar that he was sitting at.

Arthur didn't respond at first. He just watched Alfred, America, the man whom he'd thought he would never see again. His fingers were following the rim of his teacup, the edge of it biting into the pad of his thumb at the repetitiveness of the action. "Why would you care how I know America if you don't think that an America personification can actually exist?" he asked. He'd caught on to that inkling of true curiosity in Alfred's voice, noticed the way the American seemed to tilt his head at the first question. He wanted to know what England was, not who, but what. Though Alfred wasn't necessarily America anymore, England could still read him; easy as cracking open a much beloved book.

Alfred flushed and glared moodily into his coffee. "Whatever, if you're going to be difficult about it, than just forget it, Jesus," he grumbled, unwilling to meet Arthur's acidic eyes.

But Arthur wanted to respond. He could see where he might latch on and slowly turn his lover's mind around. "I'm Great Britain and England, either of those names will do."

"Psh, nah. You'd have to be this old, annoying codger, with sweater vests, and tea, and knitting…" Alfred trailed off, confused once more.

"Oh, America, I have endured worse insults from you than that halfhearted attempt," sighed England, sipping his tea. "You forgot to complain about my cooking you know. What was it you said about my scones once? They taste 'like petrified couch stuffing'?" He was unruffled, and sarcastic.

It was uncanny, and strangely familiar.

"Okay, fine. So let's say, hypothetically," Alfred said sternly, catching Arthur's eyebrows rising, "that you are England. Wouldn't you have, like, your land mapped out on you or something? Or some scars or something? I dunno! How is that even possible. It's not possible. Countries can't be people, that's why they're freaking _countries._ And besides. Wouldn't our governments mention that our countries are real beings to us at some point or another? I mean, that's kind of a big thing."

"And have people swarming them? Have people blaming them for what was actually going on? Have people, terrorists for example, looking to take them out, thinking that if they did that they could wipe out the nation? That is a horrendous idea, Alfred, and I'm disappointed. You used to be so much smarter, even though you were less perceptive.

Of course I don't have my land mapped out on me. I _am_ my land, though I might not be shaped like it. I can feel the state that it's in, the wearing away of top soil, the different veins of iron and gold and silver. I can feel the bones of my ancient peoples, hear their chatter still in my ears. I know so much about England because I _am_ England. I _am _Great Britain."

There was something ultimately different about the man now, a raw form of power that was both intimidating and electrifying. Arthur hadn't previously held that kind of authority, but this man, perhaps this creature, did. This _England_ was menacing, and someone who was not to be bothered.

Alfred scootched his chair back. He could feel a sensation of annoyance at what England was doing. England or Arthur? There was a part of him that was not pleased with the threats the nation was throwing around. There was a part of him that wanted to snap back at this monster and say that _he _also was someone who wasn't to be trifled with.

But that part of him was weak, and it was overruled by the more submissive side of his head, perhaps the more logical one, that urged Alfred to raise his hands in surrender. "Hey, whoa, sorry dude. I didn't mean any harm, alright? I get it. You're England. I believe you." And the scary part, was that Alfred did. Alfred did believe this man, he had complete faith now that he was a country. No human could be that menacing. No human could get so passionate about a tiny island off of mainland Europe. No _human_, but maybe the country itself. "What makes you think I'm America, anyway? Did he exist before or something?"

Arthur calmed down, that terrifying aura about him bleaching out. "Yes, he existed, Alfred. He was you. You share his human name, Alfred F. Jones. You are his carbon copy, right down to that irritating curl of his. You even have the same glasses. You act like him, you react like him most of the time, you love the same things he loved. No one can eat a cheeseburger as fast as you did."

At Alfred's confused and creeped-out expression, Arthur shrugged. "So I bugged your apartment. There are worse things."

Alfred made to reach for his phone but was stopped by Arthur's once more powerful tone. "Don't even consider it. They'll just label you a mad man. The police forces are wired in with the FBI, the CIA, the government. They'll know when you're calling about an issue having to do with possible country personifications. You will immediately be taken care of, whether that be in a mental institution or 3:00 AM some unfortunate Monday morning doesn't matter."

Alfred had enough of this. "You know what? Would you stop! Would you fucking stop with this dumb 'I'm going to scare Alfred' thing! I'm not a child. I can do whatever the hell I please, and you can't have a single say in it. Jesus _fucking Christ, _all I wanted was to get my phone. No need to jump to your high-and-mighty assumptions." And with that, he aggressively yanked his crappy flip phone from his pocket and made a point of opening it as obnoxiously as possible, keeping belligerent eye contact with Arthur the entire time.

England wasn't pleased with America's retaliation to say the least, it was very poorly put together, but it was something that _America_ would do. Alfred wouldn't have done that. Alfred had more respect than his counterpart. But he was slowly rediscovering that other side of him. He was finding himself again, and it was going to drive Arthur, or England, crazy in the process.

Once done with whatever he'd been doing, Alfred put his phone down and sipped his coffee, stewing quietly, something America certainly wouldn't have done.

Arthur still had a way to go with this one.

"We lost contact with you in Afghanistan," said Arthur randomly. "You were on the radio one minute, and the next you were gone. I knew that you weren't at your strongest. You were at your most furious, that was for sure, but not at your strongest. You weren't like you were in World War II. You could move mountains back then, you could fight a war on two fronts back then. But that 9/11 bombing had weakened you. It didn't take you down, as those terrorists had hoped it would, but it had momentarily disoriented you, perhaps starting the gradual memory loss that took you away from us. We don't know what happened between the moment you disappeared and the here and now, and we're hoping that one day you can tell us."

Alfred was quiet, ruminating but listening. England could tell that he was getting across to America. "Do you ever wonder why you have those scars? That magnificent seam down your navel, as if someone had taken a knife and tried to saw you in half. And what about that particularly brutal cut along your rib cage? Or perhaps the injury that looks strangely like a bullet had torn away the flesh on your forearm? Or even the crossing scars on your back?"

Alfred's hands were inadvertently moving to test each of the places that Arthur was listing, aware that the scars were there, that the injuries existed, but just making sure, showing that each word Arthur spoke was the truth.

"The one down your center is from the Civil War. You were splitting in half, quite literally. God, it was agony having to watch you go through that. You never asked for help, even went so far as to forbid France and me from intervening.

The one on your rib cage is when you foolishly declared independence. I inflicted that one. I'd come awfully close to killing you that day, I'll have you know. Seeing that scarlet blood of yours staining that stupid blue uniform that the frog had provided for you was indescribably pleasing. I wanted to see more of it, but I held back.

The bullet groove is from, incidentally, a self-inflicted injury. It was on the day that Washington had died. You were inconsolable, not that I was there, but I had heard of your grief. You killed yourself that day. Not as a nation, but a person, reborn moments later as the same being, with the same grievances. That's the thing about us nations, we can't run away from our fears, our lives. You're supposed to face them head on.

And finally, the last scar that I mentioned was from 9/11. I rushed over as soon as I could. You didn't pay me half a mind, too wrapped up with helping, and planning, and watching, and protecting, and thirsting for revenge. I'd never seen you so worked up, not even after the Pearl Harbor bombing, which you'll find a scar for if you look hard enough.

When you're a nation, you're a mix of personal scars, the ones that you inflict, or that another nation inflicts on you, and scars that come from injuries to your land or your people."

Alfred was gazing, owlishly, at him, his thumb running along that left forearm, tracing the light ridges of skin.

"Can you remember any of that, Alfred? Any of it at all?"

Alfred worked his teeth together, debating whether to tell Arthur about the dream, the two dreams.

"I've dreamt of the Revolutionary War, but it was from a third person point of view." He caught the interest in England's eyes and began to speak, detailing every bit of it, as he remembered it very clearly.

By the time he was finished, Arthur was frowning and smiling, somehow, at the same time. Pleased, with how Alfred could remember it, and displeased with how pathetic he had appeared in it.

"I can remember that too, you know," he said finally, his voice distant as if he were back in that time, that place, with the mud clinging to his knees and scooped on his fingers, rain plopping in great droplets on his forehead. The sounds of boots squashing uncomfortably in the muck, rifles clicking, the staunchness of America's adolescent voice.

Alfred didn't really know where to take the conversation from there. He wanted to go home, but how do you tell someone that, after finding out that you could very possibly be a country? What if it was all just an elaborate trick? What if Arthur was crazy? Alfred had always been rather gullible, his own brother Matthew had managed to trick him a few times when they were younger. Speaking of which…

"Do I have a brother, as America I mean?"

"Yes," responded England, lightning fast, "Yes, you do. His human name is Matthew. Your brother, as America so you say, is Canada."

Alfred shivered, his mind flicking through childhood memories containing lazy maple syrup, and racing down mountain slopes frosted with fluffy snow. Matthew's obsession with everything Canadian. Matthew's later citizenship in Canada. His mother's own Canadian heritage.

He tried to picture his mom in his mind's eye then, never having given her much thought before, and found that he couldn't. She was blurry, fuzzy at the edges, features smudged. There was no distinct picture of his mother, not like a normal person would have. Nor was there a clear definition for his father.

He had, in his mind anyway, no family. His parents might not have even existed. This life was all a fallacy.

"Right," said Alfred, forcing himself from the dark thoughts. "It's probably best I head home now. Day at work tomorrow, I think you know how it is," he gave England a wary look before sliding off of the stool. "Thanks for the horri- I mean pleasant coffee," he caught himself just in time, not intending to say something so horrific about a beverage that Arthur had put a lot of work into.

Arthur waved him off and led him to the door. "Have a nice night, Alfred." He murmured, hesitating a moment before leaning slightly up to press a kiss to Al's cheek. "Sleep well," and with that, he ushered Alfred further out of the door and pressed it closed.

Alfred brushed his fingers along the kiss, a faint memory stirring way back in his brain, emotions of complete and utter adoration stirring through him in a moment before they disappeared.

Shrugging it off, he went out to the sidewalk in front of the apartment building and began his walk home. He was lucky he lived in such a small town.

Arthur, however, was pressing himself back against the door, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He'd screwed up at the beginning, after almost wanting to attack Alfred to shake the America that he knew out of him. He'd never wanted to pin someone to the ground and beat them silly so much before. And France had done his fair share of pissing England off, so that was an extreme desire.

England could remember the day he'd lost contact with America. America's memory had gradually been getting worse as the years passed after the 9/11 bombing. First it started with silly things, like how he couldn't remember which street to turn on, or what he'd had for dinner that night. But then, it gingerly grew worse. He soon wasn't able to remember what he was, he was forgetting his history, why he had certain scars. When Arthur had talked with him on a long distance call from London England, Alfred had just clicked off mid sentence. He'd been doing particularly poorly at that point, no longer able to recognize England as a country but rather Arthur as a person.

England didn't mind, though, he was perfectly content being called Arthur so long as he still had Alfred in his life. Perhaps that was a selfish wish, and he knew that he should worry himself more about getting Alfred help, but he didn't want to. He rather relished how easily they got along, how few fights broke out about how 'demanding' England was or how 'old.'

England had had the phone on speaker that miserable Wednesday. His cellphone had rested on the arm of the chair that he was sitting in, and he was talking to Alfred as he rather domestically knitted.

They were talking about a rather mundane thing, education systems.

"Dude, you don't get it though. My school was awesome over in America, the teachers were so cool," Alfred spoke, babbling on and on about the utter glory of America's educational system. Arthur was waiting his turn to refute Alfred's arguments, but never got his chance. "And one day, this one teach-" the line cut off.

"Alfred?" asked Arthur, languidly curious, wondering if perhaps Al was just trying to play a trick on him.

He got no response.

"Alfred?" asked Arthur once more, sitting up and planting both of his feet on the ground, picking the phone up and cramming it against his ear. Perhaps if Alfred hadn't been in a war environment, he wouldn't have been so concerned. But as was, Alfred was in the middle of hunting down Bin Laden, and losing contact with America was putting England on edge. With Alfred's forgetfulness these days, he could have just accidentally hung up. Or he could have wandered off, or been taken prisoner, or died. Arthur was less concerned about the last one than he was the earlier two. If Alfred had died than he would, presumably, revive.

It wasn't until a couple of days later that he received a 'Missing in Action' report from President Obama himself.

"America is no longer with us," the man had said, with that strangely soothing voice of his.

Arthur could remember arguing back, as if by debating with America's boss he could somehow bring America himself back as good as new. Needless to say, that hadn't worked.

And here was Arthur, almost a full eight years later, having found Alfred. But it wasn't the Alfred, the America, that Arthur yearned and ached and cried for. Yes, he cried, though he'd never admit it to anyone, he had.

Alfred was as beautiful as ever. His eyes were just as lit with hope, and promise, and Manifest Destiny as were his skies. That dark blond hair of his was adorably rumpled, Nantucket springing roguishly out from his head. He was still muscular, still unaware of his strength.

And he still smelled _gorgeous_. Arthur would never forget that smell, that mix of soap, pine shavings, and dog.

It had been Hungary and Prussia who had thought they'd found him first. Arthur was there within a few hours after their suspicions were announced. Hungary herself was working as the secretary at the YMCA. Ukraine arrived there a few days after her, and was the stand in for Hungary as the country wandered off with her consort, the old nation of Prussia. Both had done their jobs in finding the allusive American representative, and Arthur had no doubt they were looking for some alone time. He could hardly blame them.

Pulling himself away from the door, he wandered into the kitchen and put the two mugs up. Once finished tidying things, he got ready for bed and burrowed down, tucking his head into the fluffy loveliness of his feather pillow. He slipped off that night to the sticky muddiness of the trenches locking around his ankles.

Alfred, upon making it through the door of his good-deal-less-posh apartment, kicked his shoes off and stumbled into his bedroom before hitching himself on his bed. His mind was aching, whirling, considering, processing. He didn't know what to do with himself, so he rolled over on his back and pressed his palms flat into the comforter of the bed, eyes closing. He inhaled deeply from his nose, working to center himself as he'd always taught people who came to his Y.

And he'd never realized how useless that trick was until he actually tried it out himself.

The sound of shrieking horses was all around him as he charged forward, holding the bayonet in front of his blue Union uniform, his mouth opened wide in a sad mimic of the rebel yell that the South was so renowned for. The nasty pain of the jagged line cutting its way down his chest and stomach was tugging at him, inhibiting him from moving his arms too far or swinging his gun in too quick of a motion.

He narrowly dodged the deadly saber of a Confederate soldier, ducking under and throwing his shoulder so that the swing of his own bayonet dug into the other soldier's unprotected belly. The man screeched and went down, blood bubbling up in his mouth and clogging his throat.

Alfred moved heartlessly on to his next victim, feeling an unnatural amount of hatred for these people who were causing him so much pain. These stupid, self-righteous slave owners. His beloved, rebellious Virginia with her many little cohorts.

A bullet sang through the air, released from the grooved bayonet of a Confederate crouched on the packed dirt in front of him.

Alfred quickly fired his response, not even skipping a beat as he blew the soldier's head off.

A horse wheeled by him, one of its hind hooves clipping his gun out of his hand and sending it flying through the air to land at the feet of a commanding officer.

Alfred swore and dove forward in a desperate attempt to regain control of the weapon, and was made quick work of as the man brought his own saber down to effectively break through the skin of Alfred's back and dig harshly, oh so painfully, through his spine.

Alfred screamed, the warning flashes and burning of pain echoing from his fingers, down his arms, and to his toes. Agony was making him writhe, consequently worsening the wound. He wanted it to end, he wanted England to come and wish it all away, to arrive with his weapons and naval power, to beat back these rebellious southern states.

But that wasn't eNgland's job, and it hadn't been for a good century. That was all up to America, and he wasn't so sure that he could handle it.

The soldier brough the saber up one more time before shearing it through Alfred's skull and bringing the proud America to death's door for the umpteenth time.

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Yay! Chapter Three is done.

What did all of you think? Are we liking it? Disliking it? Am I taking things too fast, portraying characters falsely?

Please let me know your thoughts.

Have a lovely Friday!


	4. Our Time Now

Hello! Sorry for the late update, no inspiration last week _at all whatsoever_. So I hope this chapter will reasonably make upf or it, though it's more of a filler than anything else. I have something big planned for Chapter 5, so stick with me!

This chapter title is the song title by The Plain White T's.

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Any part of it. Nor do I own the title of this chapter._

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**Our Time Now**

_"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."  
_

**_―_Haruki Murakami,_ Kafka on the __Shore_**

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America snapped awake screaming.

His back was arched away from the bed, his eyes squeezed shut and the sharp stabbing blade of the Confederate soldier's blade ringing up his back. He broke into sobs once more, heaving dry ones as he struggled to find a position on the bed where he didn't feel that agony curving and curling and _crawling_ down his spine, without the invasive sensation of a scar dipping into and ripping his stomach open.

He wanted to weep and tear himself in two, to make the sensations stop, for someone to ward the pain away.

Once the torment died down, he lay panting in bed, his eyes slowly opening, bloodshot with the wracking effort it had taken to hold back the tears. His fingers were wound in the sheets, his pillows thrown about the bed in his struggle to cheat the memories.

He coughed and swung out of bed, wincing at the throb of remembrance clanged at his spine and stretched at the scar along his stomach. His feet padded, bare, across the broken wood of the floor and into the kitchen, sliding with a bit of relief on the smooth, crummy kitchen tiles, a pale yellow crawling at each of their edges. He pulled the refrigerator door open, its cold light illuminating the dark kitchen, his bloodshot eyes skipping over the contents. The same tub of cottage cheese was there, nothing more had been added to it. Not like he was expecting an addition to the items, seeing as he hadn't visited the store of late, but all the same. Alfred was rather useless when it came to groceries.

But his stomach was too riled for him to settle on either of the fridge items, and he eventually closed it and made his miserable way to the sofa, curling up into a ball as small as he could manage, in the corner of the piece of furniture with his head pressed into the back couch cushions.

His body wanted to sleep, could feel his eyelids magnetizing closer to one another, but he didn't want to, rather detested the idea. Every time he slept, he was plagued with nightmares and dreams of England and wars and battles and misery. Nothing happy seemed to ever spring from the depths of his imagination, and with every dream, he found that it was easier to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was America. Unless he'd lived a past life as a Civil War soldier, it was highly unlikely that a regular person would have a dream of something so disastrous in such high detail.

Against his will, his body succumbed to exhaustion.

He was woken by the sound of a fist pounding on the door leading into his apartment. Peering blearily at the structure, he rubbed a hand over his eyes and yawned before stumbling towards the door and tugging it open. He'd gotten so used to the other person being England, er, Arthur that he didn't even bother looking out the peephole anymore.

Which was probably a mistake, as the person waiting on the other side of it was most certainly not Eng-Arthur.

A man with long blond hair, blue eyes, and a faint dusting of a beard on his chin was waiting on the other side of it. His outfit was fashionable, gray jeans with a white button-down shirt, red scarf, and nice scrubbed black business shoes. He swept a smile at Alfred before letting himself into the other man's apartment, leaving a blinking, bewildered, and foggy American behind him.

"This is a bit of a disappointment, _non_?" he asked, peering with unveiled disgust at the interior of the place. A thick French accent tugged each word into something that sounded entirely different from its normally pronounced counterpart.

"Dude, who the hell do you think you are?!" snapped Alfred, taking a threatening step forward.

The strange man immediately cowered back. "You do not remember me, Alfred?" he asked, an almost injured tone to his words. Al squinted at him—without his glasses it was hard enough to see—and shook his head.

"Not in the slightest, now get the fuck out of my apartment," he gestured pointedly at the door behind him and waited remarkably patiently for the French man to take the hint. His accent was beginning to get on his nerves.

Blondie laughed and shook his head, though there was a slightly hurt look to him. "Ah, _je m'appelle Francis_."

Alfred was incredulous. "Are you kidding me? Get the fuck out of my home! I'm not looking for a friend this fucking early in the morning!" He stepped forward again and watched, slightly alarmed, as the other man quickly steered himself behind the table, crouching down slightly and peeking over the edge of it.

"No need for violence! Goodness, you and Arthur are so similar it is uncanny."

Alfred froze, his fingers clenching a moment. "You know Arthur?"

"_Oui_, he and I have known one another an exceptionally long time, _mon ami_."

Alfred could remember a bit now. That dream he'd had. There was another man there, though he'd stood back and left Alfred and Arthur to the center field. This man who resembled Francis to a tee. This man who wore bright blue and bright red and perpetually had a rose in his hand and kisses available for everyone. This man who had fallen in love with Matthew. This man who was France?

But he also looked like one of Alfred's uncles. "Are you Uncle Bonnefoy?" he asked finally, head tilting to the side.

He saw the Frenchman, Francis, visibly deflate. A flicker of hopelessness was caught in those depths before the other guy managed to shower sparkles to lighten the atmosphere. "That is my last name, but no, I am not your uncle." He shivered a moment, looking profoundly disgusted at the idea.

"Well, nice to meet you Francis, but please leave. If you're looking for Arthur's residence, go somewhere else to find the address." He was just about to shove Francis out of the door when he realized something. "Wait. How did you find me?"

"Angle- Arthur told me," he said easily, shrugging one shoulder at Alfred's disgruntled expression. "Now then, let's go get breakfast. And I am choosing your outfit for the day, you are off of work." With that, he swept into Alfred's room as if he'd been living in the apartment as long as the American had.

A ruffling of clothes against wooden drawers and the sliding of hangers along a metal rail had Alfred quickly moving to his bedroom, peeking warily in at the nosy Frenchman. "Are you done digging through my stuff? Jesus." He grumbled, though had long since realized that this Francis character was impossible to tell no to. When the guy heard the telltale negative, it somehow translated into _oui_ in his messed up head.

In record time, clothes were placed out on the bed. They were all articles of clothing that Alfred hadn't known he possessed.

"Is that… A button-down shirt?" he questioned, pulling himself further into the room and towards his still-rumpled bed, staring at the rather clean-looking outfit laying over the mess of covers and sheets.

A button-down plaid was sitting above a pair of white pants, and on the floor was thrown a pair of black Vans.

Where the hell had Alfred gotten Vans?

Shrugging, he waited patiently for Francis to leave the room, and was momentarily alarmed when the man took a seat on the bed and gestured for Alfred to begin changing. Al hesitated a moment before turning his back and beginning to self-consciously change in front of the Frenchman.

He'd just slipped his shirt off when nimble fingers danced along one of the scars threading a trial of raised white skin along his right shoulder blade. "I gave you this in the French-Indian War, you know," said the French accent behind him. It was lost in memory, as the words were more murmured than stated. As if it were a passing observation.

Al shivered and inched slightly away from Francis. "Dude, neither of us were alive back then." He said, for what felt like the umpteenth time in regards to history that he shouldn't even have been alive for.

Francis gave him a sad smile. "Ah, _mais oui_. You are right. How did you get it?"

Alfred felt this conversation was more than a little awkward, but he hoped that by responding to this last question, Francis might just leave him to finish changing in peace.

"A friend tripped behind me and accidentally tore their pen through my shoulder. They got in a lot of trouble for it, and I had to be taken to the hospital. First time I'd ever been. I think it was one of the first scars I got…" he trailed off, musing over any that could have occurred earlier. There was the scar in his heart from when he'd lost his favorite action figure, whom he'd named Roanoke. But that was hardly a physical injury. He did have a burn scar from when he'd stupidly touched the stove after he'd been specifically told not to. He was only about four at the time, though.

Francis stayed a moment longer before reclaiming his spot on the bed and letting Alfred finish changing in an awkward silence. Al could feel the man's eyes boring holes into him, mapping out the different scars and lines that decorated his back. Sure, he knew that he had more injuries than really was normal for a regular human being, but it was rude to stare.

Once he was finally finished, he straightened out his shirt and glared huffily at Francis. "There, are we ready to go now?"

Francis grinned and nodded cheerfully, a surprising mood change considering his earlier melancholy. "Bien sûr!" he stood, clapped his hands together, and then dragged Alfred from his apartment, barely giving the American time to lock the door behind him.

Alfred gazed with slight trepidation at the car sitting before him. It was a sleek vehicle, cherry red and a stuffed rooster was sitting on the dashboard. When the door was pulled open, Alfred was hit with a wave of rosy smelling _something_.

"Dude," he reeled back, a hand moving up to cover his nose. "What the fuck have you used in your car?"

Francis gave Alfred a confused look before sliding into the driver's seat. "Roses, what else?"

Alfred wrinkled his nose but said nothing more on the matter, and slid into the passenger seat. He pulled his shirt over his nose, breathed through his mouth, and otherwise avoided conversation the entire ride to the rundown local diner.

Really, going out to breakfast with a complete stranger was a terrible idea. But he was hungry, and he had no good food at home, and he knew self-defense so he wasn't concerned about his safety. Might as well get a free meal out of the encounter.

They walked into the grungy diner after a few looks were cast their way at the sweet appearance of Francis's car. Wherever this guy was coming from, he must have had a massive bank account.

The bell rang over the door and a woman quickly bustled over to the two tall boys, a smile gracing her lips. "Good morning! Table for two?" she raised her eyebrows suggestively at the number of their party, and Alfred stuck his tongue out in disgust.

They were led to a booth, the material sticky on Al's skin as he slid in. The linoleum tabletop had a napkin holder, a mustard bottle, and a ketchup bottle on its surface. Salt and Pepper sat there as well, but nothing else.

Menus were placed in front of the two, and Alfred quickly cracked his open and began to search through any new meals that could have been placed on it.

There were none, so Al settled for his traditional "All American Breakfast." If this French stranger was so willing to barge into his house, and if he owned such an awesome car, than he would be more than capable for paying for Alfred's perhaps more expensive than cheap meal.

Francis chose an omelette, and after their orders were taken and the waitress disappeared to retrieve their drinks for them.

An awkward silence settled over the table, and Alfred subsequently began to mess around with the salt and pepper holders. He was trying to tilt the salt into the pepper container because segregation was stupid when a hand appeared out of nowhere and removed the seasonings from his grasp.

Alfred gave Francis an aggrieved expression but the Frenchman wouldn't budge on the matter.

"_Amer- _Alfred, we need to talk." Said Francis firmly and slid the slat and pepper to to his elbow. He needed Alfred's full attention.

"Did Arthur tell you that you are _Amerique_?"

"Yeah, yeah he did. He's crazy isn't he? Off his rocker." Nervous, obnoxious laughter accompanied this statement, and then chocolate milk was placed before him and he hurriedly tugged the glass against his chest, as if it could function as some sort of barrier between himself and the antagonistic Frenchman across the table from him.

"Alfred…" Francis trailed off, seeming to gather his thoughts for a minute.

"Alfred, we have searched for you for years. And when I say we, I mean the other countries of the world and me." He paused, seeing that Alfred was not going to help him along in this awkward explication of things.

"_Bien, je peux voir que tu ne veux pas le fair facile pour moi_," grumbled Francis, glaring accusingly at Alfred after his French statement.

What frightened Alfred was that he _understood him._

"Dude! What the hell?! I understood you!" he attracted a few glances in the restaurant as his voice rose with his surprise and horror.

Francis looked pleasantly surprised at this turn of events and leaned forward, peering at Alfred over a bridge of knit fingers. "_Vraiment_? Your memories are coming back faster than we predicted they would." It was a clinical observation. No emotion was bled into the words, and Francis was careful to keep up a straight face throughout his sentence. He found a niche in _Amerique's_ armor and he was going to exploit it for all it was worth.

"But… I've never spoken French before…" Alfred trailed off, his eyes gazing sightlessly out at the flickering stoplight in the window's frame.

Francis placed a gentle hand on Al's trembling fingers, trying his best to soothe the nervous American.

"Alfred, do you think that you can admit to the fact that you are _Amerique_? Where do you remember me from? I'm not your uncle, though I am your older brother. I gave you Louisiana. I gave you that French langauge you know but simply cannot pronounce. I helped you fight for your independence from that stupid England…" his tone was entreating, placating, and somehow seductive all at once.

America quickly pulled his hands from beneath Francis's. "So what if I am dude? Why would I forget my memories like that?"

"That is something we are hoping to find out from you as well. _Angeleterre_ believes that you will remember what happened once you recover enough fo your memories." He sat back and smiled obligingly at the waitress who set his bacon and cheese omelette in front of him. A plate heaving with scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes was then placed before Alfred, and France wrinkled his nose in distaste at the heavy foods.

"_Mon Dieu_, I will never know how you can stomach all that stuff."

Alfred shrugged. "Shut up, dude, you eat frog legs." And with that, he dug in, much to the dismayed sigh emanating from his French companion.

He felt as if he'd crossed a hurdle. Alfred was finally more willing to believe that he actually was America. It would explain so much, so, so much. And it was a sort of blessed relief. He wouldn't have to explain those dreams away now. Arthur was England. This guy, Francis, must be France. His brother, Matthew, was actually Canada.

"Francis?"

"_Oui_?"

"How did I get that scar? The one on my shoulder blade?"

Francis's eyes softened and he gently set down his fork. "Do you want me to tell you, or would you rather remember it?" he asked carefully, his voice as gentle as the brush of a butterfly wing.

"I want you to tell me."

"_Tres bien_. It was during the Seven Years' War, or as you _Americains _call it, the French and Indian War. You were a slippery little thing to get a hold of, I will have you know. Always sliding behind that asshole England. When I finally did get you alone, you put up a nasty fight. England trained you well, however he also trained you with perhaps a bit too much caution. You turned your back on me because you thought the fight was over. But I was far from defeated! So I lunged forward with my bayonet and barely managed to slice open your back when you turned around and drove me backwards. As the fate of God demanded, I lost that war." He hung his head, perhaps in embarrassment, and perhaps for dramatic effect.

Alfred chuckled, memories tickling at his mind. He could recall that, very faintly. The warm buzz of cicadas, the sliding of boots over grass, the crack of shots echoing from behind two separate trees. France's baiting voice, trying his best to entice America out, as if the country were _that_ stupid.

His shoulder tugged a bit at the memory, and a hand automatically moved up to massage the air. He had been experiencing too many of these memory-pains to really be overly concerned about them these days.

Because it all made some fucking fabulous sense.

"What other countries have searched for me?" he asked suddenly, his eyes wide, and circular, and curious.

Francis sighed. "All except for North Korea and Afghanistan."

"That makes a lot of sense, actually." Said Alfred rather sheepishly. America was brutally tearing apart Afghanistan. No wonder the country wouldn't be interested in gallivanting off on a search for the United States. Let sleeping bears lie so they say.

The bell rang again, and Alfred and Francis turned simultaneously to see who the newest visitors were.

It was Elizaveta and the guy she'd been so happy to see the other day. Alfred grinned largely and waved exuberantly at the two from where he sat at his table. He noticed the white-haired guy's arm tighten around the Hungarian secretary's waist, and saw his head dip to whisper something her ear, but was unable to sense what exactly those actions could mean.

They both eventually wound their way over to where France and America were sitting. Eliza managed a smile in France's direction, and her boyfriend grinned and began to rapidly converse with the guy in German, which Alfred also happened to understand.

"Hiya Eliza," said Al, completely informal now that he was out of the work environment. He had work off that day, for reasons unknown to him, and so was in a generally happier mood.

"Hello America," said Liz then, before her eyes widened in horror. "_Te jó Isten_, I am so sorry! I did not mean that, I can promise you."

Her boyfriend seemed to sense her distress and rapidly turned towards her, concern knitting his white eyebrows together. His eyes fell then on Alfred in an accusatory manner, as if it were all Alfred's fault that Eliza was so flustered.

Francis's obnoxious laughter broke the charged silence. "He knows, Hungary, do not worry yourself." The man flapped his hand dismissively and resumed his breakfast.

The German guy to the right of Eliza cooled down at the realization of what had gone down, and he grinned at America. "_Hallo! _Do you remember me?"

Alfred shook his head slowly. "Er… No… Sorry."

Eliza patted her boyfriend's back as an immensely injured expression overrode the smile from earlier. "But I helped you get your independence!" gasped out the white-haired guy.

Alfred shrugged awkwardly and tapped an unsteady rhythm on the table at the awkwardness of the situation. This dude could rival Francis in the dramatics department.

"I am too awesome to be remembered, that is why you have forgotten me!" snapped the man, suddenly happy and alert again. His mood change had Alfred's head spinning.

"I am the once great and awesome country of Prussia."

Eliza sighed and slapped the back of Prussia's head, though it was gently. There was affection in her gesture. "His name is Gilbert, Alfred. In case you were wondering. And I am the _still existing_ country of Hungary." She said this with pointed clarity, smirking perhaps too smugly at her boyfriend's peeved frown.

"Well, come by my house later. Gil and I are going to want to talk to you. Enjoy your breakfast, and watch yourself around this one," she threw a thumb over at the oblivious Francis. "He's sneaky."

With that, she led Gilbert away from Al and Francis's table.

And then an English gentleman appeared on the scene, and he didn't necessarily have the best handling of the situation.

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The end! For this chapter anyway.

So what were everyone's thoughts?

Please review and have a lovely day, or night. Depending on where you're at I guess.


	5. Remember, Goddamn You

Hello! Sorry for the late update. I was receiving literally no inspiration for this thing whatsoever. And then, obviously, I was smacked with it yesterday but was unable to complete it before I passed out from exhaustion. So here we are! I hope you all enjoy. We get into a lot more character development here, and some things that I will be explaining at the bottom.

Enjoy!

**SolielHime- **Oh my gosh, thank you so much for pointing that out! I'm such an ignorant American, I apologize. Thank you for the correction, and I am so glad that you are enjoying this. :)

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hetalia Franchise._

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**Remember, Goddamn You**

_"The worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers."  
_

**―Rachel Vincent,**_** My Soul to Save**__  
_

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Great Britain was possessive. You don't own more than a third of the world if you're altruistic, after all.

He made a beeline for Francis and Alfred's table and stood protectively behind Alfred, resting his hands on Al's shoulders. His acidic eyes glared poisonously across the table at Francis, grip tightening.

France grinned, his sharp blue eyes locking on Arthur's jealous green. "_Bonjour Angleterre_," he purred, sipping at his glass of water. Droplets of the condensed liquid fell to the linoleum tabletop, and Arthur managed a razor-edged smile back at the Frenchman.

"Hello France."

Alfred shifted uncomfortably in the seat, but didn't bother to pull away from Arthur's clinging fingers. He really hoped that no civilians walked by and heard the other men's words. Referring to other people as countries wasn't exactly the norm.

Francis noticed how Alfred wasn't tugging himself away from Arthur and sighed. They still had a long way until their America returned to them.

"I was just taking _Amerique_ out to breakfast. Calm down," he complained, resuming his omelet consumption.

Britain scoffed before sliding out the chair next to America and taking a seat. He then grabbed the young nation's hand and tugged it over so that their joined hands were resting on his right knee. Once again, Alfred said nothing. He shifted in his seat once more, a couple of emotions that didn't feel like his own prodding at his mind, but he didn't move away or tug their hands over to _his_ knee. He just sat there, and let Arthur control everything, as he had in the days of colonyhood.

Francis noted this too but said nothing. He would tease about some things, but not about others.

"Have you told him?" he asked Arthur, observant blue eyes flicking between the two English-speaking nations across the table from him. Arthur shook his head in response.

Alfred was confused. He peeked between the two serious men and scooped some scrambled egg into his mouth. His breakfast was getting cold.

England eventually turned to him, his mouth opening and closing and opening and closing before his eyes slid to the plate of breakfast food in front of Alfred. "Good lord, what on Earth are you consuming?"

"Food," said America, tugging the plate protectively into his chest and blocking the view of it with his arm.

Arthur rolled his eyes before messing with Alfred's glass of orange juice. It was spun along the tabletop as the country debated with himself over the issue of telling Alfred exactly what was happening.

Francis's phone interrupted the tense silence. It was the French National Anthem, _La Marseillaise_, in all of its ringing glory, and the man quickly shot up and answered it. He said nothing for a few minutes, presumably because someone was speaking to him on the other end. After a few minutes, he swore in a string of French, making the words sound falsely lovely with his accent.

Both Arthur and Alfred understood what was being said as Francis broke into rapid-fire French and was beginning to pace. The man's hand was trembling as he pressed the phone to his ear, his teeth worrying at his lip. Arthur knew from their shared history that France only ever did that when something had gone horribly wrong. The man was much too proud of his appearance to bruise his lips, unless it was done thoughtlessly.

When the phone was finally put away, France barely managed parting words to Arthur and Alfred before throwing some cash on the table and fleeing the diner.

Arthur was on his feet, his fingers abandoning Al's hand to run through his hair. "Matthew," he murmured, pain lacing his words. Not half the amount of agony that Francis was going through, but enough to make Alfred aware that Britain had been close with Canada in the past. That would make sense, as Canada had been a British colony.

A twist to America's heart was all he really felt in response to the issue at hand. He didn't understand the full torment. He didn't remember enough to do so. But his memories of his "family" were enough to help him understand a little of the suffering Arthur and Francis may be enduring.

"Is Francis going to find him?" He was never going to get used to directly referring to the other men as countries, so he opted to use their human names instead.

"Yes," croaked out Arthur, squeezing his eyes shut before sitting down again. He was breathing a little harsher, his hands shaking as well before interlocking together. His fingers were pressing into the backs of his hands so rigidly that the skin was turning white.

"Why did Mattie disappear?"

"The governments are turning on us," said Arthur simply, his mind half-focusing on the discussion. He hadn't planned to state such a serious issue in such a casual, slipshod manner, but there it was.

Alfred's eyes widened, surprise drawing him into a stunned silence.

Arthur was only fully aware of the weight of his statement a minute after he'd said it. Thus enlightened, he turned to Alfred, threw some more money on the table, and dragged the American out of the diner. He had some explaining to do, and such a public environment was not the place to do it.

The questions washed over him like a tidal wave as soon as they both made it into the car.

"What do you mean the governments are turning on us? You're crazy! Can that be true? How do I actually know you're a country? What do you have to prove that? What is wrong with you? Why would the Canadian government get rid of its own representative? You're cuckoo!" But America wasn't making a move to exit the car. He wanted more details, because no matter how ridiculous the theory sounded, the tiny part of him that believed _all of this could be true_ was desperate to know what the possible nation was talking about.

Britain obliged this inkling. "You weren't the first one to disappear. We lost you in Afghanistan, where you'd been fighting with your men. Everyone knew what was happening, everyone knew that governments were turning on us. We were moving into covert operations, you were searching for Afghanistan at that point, even though you two weren't on the best of terms at the time. We knew what was coming, but we weren't being careful enough. You are the one that it has taken the longest to find." Britain's voice cracked, his head bowed. He pressed a hand to his face, desperate to not cry. For God's sake, he was not a cry baby. He was stronger than that. He was the fucking _British Empire_.

But he had missed Alfred. Good God, he had missed him.

"We didn't know where you'd gone. We don't know why you disappeared. We don't know what your government was planning. We know nothing but that we found you."

"How do you know that it was my government who planned this? What if it was a terrorist group?"

A wan smile was donated. "The first country we lost was China. He took almost as long as you to find, and even longer to help him unearth his memories. that was when we found out that it was his government who had brainwashed him. We don't know why. We don't know what these men and women are up to, or what they want, or their goal. But immediately, those of us who represent our nations and our people went into hiding. Not everyone was fast enough, though. Spain has been missing for a while now. Romano is searching for him. I have yet to catch sight of Denmark or Norway." He shook his head and glanced at the rearview mirror. "And now we have lost Canada—dear, sweet little Matthew."

"How the hell are you able to afford all of this stuff if you are on the run?" asked Alfred, aware of the seriousness of the situation but still curious about the obvious flaws in Arthur's story.

Britain gave Alfred a deadpan expression. "Do you honestly think countries that are thousands of years old don't have vaults of gold and money and other priceless commodities? Please," he scoffed, the old European sense of imperial wealth making him snort at the idea of living poor and destitute, even if it meant that he would be more likely to stay undetected.

"Have you been taken?"

"No."

"Has France?"

"No."

"Prussia? Hungary?"

"No and no."

"Who all has disappeared?"

"I shall list them for you in order of first to last," sighed Britain, settling comfortably in his seat. "China was the first to be lost, then there was Indonesia, Kazakhstan, Kenya, Ireland, Afghanistan, you, Spain, possibly Norway and/or Denmark, and now Canada." He was ticking each country off on his fingers as he spoke.

America was fascinated by several things. First, the list of countries. That was startling, and suspicious, and it was entirely reasonable that the governments were behind it. Second, the languid way in which England spoke of the other nations who had gone missing and those who had been, presumably, found. Third, how interesting England's fingers looked as they ticked off nations. They were lithe, and lovely, and elegant, and Alfred could faintly recall exactly what those fingers were capable of doing, a memory that had a flush coloring his cheeks and neck. This was ridiculous.

Because technically, though he had allowed Arthur to be unnaturally affectionate in the diner, he didn't know the guy that well.

"That's a lot," said Alfred finally, after noticing that an expectant pause was perforating in the quietude of the space.

Arthur raised a disbelieving eyebrow but said nothing further. He knew that Al probably didn't have a car, so he chose to go ahead and start up his own before pulling out of the diner's parking lot. Francis's filthy red Ferrari was no longer there.

"Are Francis and Matthew close?" asked Alfred as they drove silently down the streets.

"They're in a relationship, actually," said Arthur vaguely. He was busy figuring out how to reach his destination. He was supposed to take Alfred to Prussia and Hungary's residence, but he was struggling to remember the street name and hadn't thought to plug it into his phone. The plan was to continue work on Alfred's memory while they visited, using some questionable devices to further and quicken the process. Prussia, obviously, was the inventor of such debatable creations.

It took a few minutes, but eventually they made it. Alfred had settled into a ruminating quiet after the news of his brother's relationship with Francis, a piece of news that Arthur could only assume Alfred was not okay with. The two brothers were always very protective of one another. He could remember Canada's ire when it had been announced that England and America were very much in a relationship.

Eliza appeared at the door as soon as they walked up the narrow walkway towards the home. It was a small thing, only one story and with a couple of windows dotting its brick walls. The door was situated to the left of center, and flowerbeds were bordering the front edge of the house. A set of stairs led up to the door, which Al and Arthur had ascended when the door was pulled open.

They were beckoned into a cozy space. The floor was decorated in squashy carpet, though tiles were apparent in the kitchen area. The walls were a refreshing light blue and the blinds all open, letting sunlight stream in and provide natural radiance to the space. From the door they entered, the living room was to their left. An old, cushiony couch sat in front of a rickety TV similar to Alfred's own. An old, nicked-up wooden coffee table was in front of the sofa, fancy woodwork scrolling along its sides and legs. A lamp was to the left of the left sofa arm. Directly in front of them and slightly to their right was the dining room, a burnished, beaten-metal table with four chairs surrounding it. A steaming plate of what appeared to be cookies was in the middle, immediately making Alfred's stomach grumble. He hadn't even really gotten to start his breakfast. Further right, and past the dining room, was the kitchen. The floor there was a pure white tile. The counters were a surprisingly modern coffee-colored marble, appliances old and white. It was all very cute.

Alfred and Arthur were both pushed into chairs before Elizaveta sat down across from them. She saw the way that Alfred was eyeing the plate of cookies and laughed before gesturing for him to take some. She had made them for the occasion, after all. Gilbert appeared out of a door to their left, past the living room, his hair wet with the after effects of a shower. He was wearing Prussia blue sweatpants, how ironic, and a white t-shirt that was close to the color of his hair. His red eyes peered anticipatorily at Alfred from the seat he took across the table. Elizaveta was wearing a similar ensemble. Her pants were green and she was wearing a white tank top. Her hair was pulled up into a loose ponytail that allowed for some strands to fall out and frame her face.

"So what are we doing here?" asked Alfred, turning to Arthur with his question and not the two who actually knew what they would be doing at their own house.

Gilbert wasn't ruffled, and he was the one to answer the question in his gravelly voice. "_You_ are going to be getting some of your memories back. _We_," with this he gestured to himself, Eliza, and Arthur, "are going to help you."

Alfred still hadn't completely bought into the idea of being America, but he couldn't see a problem with enduring the scheme. The worst that could happen was that he wasn't the country, and then they could just "erase" his memory and move on to their next victim. "Cool. So what's the game plan?"

"Well," began Gilbert, before launching into a speech that held some of the things he planned to do to Alfred in it. And with that the day really started.

**.||.**

America had backed himself into a corner. A chair was held rather threateningly in front of him, his stormy eyes were overwhelmed and wild, flicking from Prussia to Arthur and back again. Hungary had vacated the room for reasons that didn't matter to America. He was panting heavily, and both Arthur and Gilbert's hands were held in placating gestures. Senseless words were streaming from their mouths, words that he didn't understand and couldn't comprehend. He felt like a cornered animal, and as if to further his point, he brandished the chair for a moment, his knuckles white with the tight grip he had on the weapon. The weight of it was nothing to him, however. Holding the chair up was easy. Picking which one of the other countries he wanted to take out first was not.

And yet, he didn't have the opportunity to settle on one of them, as they both suddenly converged on him in flashes of blue and red and white and gold.

America had been foolish to think that he could take on both England and Prussia without a problem. They were old countries, with knowledge in the weapon-brandishing department.

In seconds he was on the ground, England sitting on his back with his knees digging into the back of America's hands. Prussia had the chair back at the dining room table in seconds, his red eyes watching America with a detached interest. "Looks like we found something," he commented blandly, gaze skipping to Hungary, who had just entered the room.

She saw the position America and Britain were in and made no comment. She and Prussia were experts in the getting-countries-memories-back field and she was more than used to seeing their 'victims' lose it at some of the intense memories they would be slammed with. She'd dealt with her fair share of them.

It took a few minutes for America to calm down, and even then, all the other countries in the room were on edge, ready to strike at the slightest sign of aggression from the younger nation.

"It was a World War II memory," Gilbert murmured to Eliza, having tugged her into a corner of the room as England peeled himself away from America. "The Pacific side of it, anyway."

Hungary nodded her head solemnly, brilliant green eyes skipping to the bewildered man who was picking himself off of the floor. "That would make a lot of sense." She mumbled, her fingers dancing thoughtfully on her thigh. America was taking longer than expected. Of the five hours they had been in the Beilschmidt-Hédérvary home, they had managed to eek out only two memories, the latest one, and something that involved England splitting America's throat as the American troops were crossing the Delaware to escape the clutches of the British army. That particular memory had forced England to another side of the room altogether.

Lunch had been put out on the table at one point or another, a plate of sandwiches that Gilbert had made. Eliza wasn't in the cooking mood earlier that day. No one had touched the food, though Hungary could see how Britain's eyes dragged on the sandwiches every time he saw them. The man was hungry, but evidently worried that if he ate, he wouldn't be able to control America when the country made its appearance.

"Let's eat," she suggested randomly, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Alfred, for he had cooled down enough to regain his earlier faculties, gave her a weary, suspicious look before moving to the table and taking a seat. England took the one across from him, which left two more chairs for Eliza and Gilbert to occupy respectively.

Prussia and Hungary were the only ones really eating at the table. England would nibble at his sandwich, but his concern for America was keeping him from really investing himself in the food. America wasn't even touching his sandwich, just staring blankly at the opposite wall, his eyes haunted.

This was typical, and Prussia and Hungary opted to just continue making conversation between the two of them. The other occupants of the room did not look particularly gregarious.

After the awkward, and short, lunch, things resumed. The previous methods of making America read snippets of biographies was abandoned. Clearly they needed something a little more hardcore, so they jumped immediately to tactics they'd used with China. They were cruel, and horrible things, but they generally got the job done. Especially with a world superpower.

**.||.**

An old Nazi armband was dangling in front of America's face, the swastika twisted and cruel. Hungary was using a special form of technology to force pain on the young nation. It was made of several black pads of fabric, wires twined in them and suctioning on to Alfred's skin. It wrapped in lines around his torso and arms, forcing the same pain he had suffered during World War Two into his young body.

The man was sobbing and shaking his head and trying to not look at the WWII artifact, failing to wrench himself away from the horrible contraption that Hungary and Prussia had wrapped around his body, but nothing of the sort was possible. England had been instructed to tie America down so that the country couldn't escape, and unsurprisingly, the sea-ruling Empire did his job perfectly. There was no escape for Alfred.

Britain had been forced to leave the room. Prussia was well aware of what the other nation would do upon seeing his former colony in distress, and he didn't want to have to duke it out with Great Britain in the living room. So he instructed the man to leave and lock himself in a room, use any means possible to keep himself from going to America's aid.

This was never easy for Prussia and Hungary. It was not easy to see proud nations brought to their knees, because that wasn't supposed to happen. But in order to get memories to revive themselves, it was imperative that they remind nations of the atrocities they had committed, and what their people had suffered.  
This practice was one of the many things that made Gilbert overly cautious when it came to his government, because being forced to go through this would be hell for him.

Hungary watched through sympathetic eyes as the blond-haired man succumbed to his fate, his body slumping and absorbing the different pain that was being forced through his skin.

They hadn't even started in on the mental side of it all, but that was an entirely different set of technology that they planned to break out later that night, after they forced America through some different time periods, including and not limited to slavery, the '60s, the Korean War, and Pearl Harbor.

As long as it was taking them to restore America's memories, it was nothing compared to China. That nation had taken a solid five months, no doubt due to his age and the ingenuity of his government in attempting to hide him away.

A tense moment had settled in the atmosphere of the room when Gilbert saw the memory convulse through America, though he wasn't sure which one it was. He'd grappled with the younger nation a couple of times in WWII, but not half as much as he had with Russia. The boy could hold his own in a fight, that was for sure, and Gil had a few scars from their spats.

Unsurprisingly, those frozen blue eyes flashed to Gilbert, a horrifying, frigid hatred in their depths.

The creature behind those baby blues was not Alfred. It was America.

Gilbert's nation side rose up at the challenge, his own red eyes flaming into lava.

"How fucking dare you," was the cold statement, emanating from America's mouth.

Gilbert had a feeling that he knew what America was addressing, and his suspicions were soon confirmed.

"How dare you treat prisoners like that," the words were spat out. Evidently, this America was living in the past, as he was speaking in a manner that implied the issue they were discussing had just recently happened. America must have been referring to the Buchenwald concentration camp, where hundreds of American GIs who were either Jewish or looked close enough to be assumed Jewish were tortured.

"I am not my little brother, America, that is not my fault."

"You were enough a part of Germany for you to be of blame!" snapped the country, unforgiving in his position. Prussia fisted the swastika fabric, the forbidden symbol pressing its face into his palm. He knew that what he'd done in World War II was horrific. He knew that what he and his brother had done was beyond contemptible. But they had attested for that, and both were determined that such a thing never happen again.

But the proud nation in him wasn't appreciating being talked to in such a way. "I cannot control Germany, America!"

Hungary slid behind Prussia, though her own actions were stiff. She could remember the mistreatment she had suffered at the hands of the two German nations, who had been upset at her betrayal in 1944 and immediately occupied her landmass. She wasn't the best person to be comforting Prussia at the moment, but she was the only other one in the room.

Before America could respond, whatever connection that had been made evaporated, and his body slumped forward.

Elizaveta still had to calm Prussia down, however, and so she quickly turned off the equipment that clung to America and focused all of her attention on the tormented former-nation in front of her. He was getting more and more emotional and volatile these days.

She was terrified that this could mean he would also be disappearing soon, as that was one of the only things the nations had discovered in the pattern of disappearing nations. In the months leading up to their vanishing, they would start forgetting things, and they would start striking out more. If she lost Gilbert, well, she wasn't sure _what_ she would do, other than invest herself in finding him.

Britain walked in on the scene at that point, noting the torn Prussian and the comforting Hungarian before his eyes slid to the balled up American.

His boots clicked on the floor as he moved over to his Alfred, quickly undoing the ties and removing the equipment.

"I think that's enough for today," he stated as Alfred slumped forward into his arms. The nation side of him was ruminating beneath his skin, displeased with the state of America. A grunt was given in response from Prussia before Elizaveta moved away from her husband, because he was _her_ husband, though he may not be Hungary's per se, and helped Arthur get Alfred to his feet. She held the door for the two as Arthur made his departure, Alfred leaning heavily on his shoulders.

Arthur was far from a weak nation. Sure, he wasn't as strong as America, but few were. With Great Britain so close to the surface, however, more of his nation strength was eeking into his muscles, enabling him to hold the majority of Alfred's weight.

He had already decided to have Alfred sleep at his apartment for the night. It wouldn't be safe to leave the young nation alone so soon after discussing darker shades of his past, so soon after uncovering more of the half of him that was America.

**.||.**

As soon as he got Alfred into his apartment, he guided the younger man into his bedroom and helped him undress and burrow beneath the covers of the bed. Evidently, Alfred was only half aware of what was happening, as he wasn't putting up any sort of a fuss.

Arthur ensured that everything else was taken care of in the apartment before he joined Alfred in bed, clicking on the lamp that was resting on the bedside table to his left. A book was slid from the table and cracked open. Arthur planned on staying awake through the night, to watch Alfred.

Besides, he was a nation. They didn't need all that much sleep anyway.

* * *

Hello! Alright, explanation time.

So, the nations are being taken by the governments. But no one knows how, or why, or what is happening exactly that makes these nations forget _everything_. I also decided to add that these nations have two halves to themselves. One is the human, sympathetic side. The other is the nation part. That section is unforgiving, and harsh, and wracked with the painful histories of their countries past.

So, I'm trying to work things in correctly. Prussia is starting to get a little iffy, memory and control wise. This could mean that he will be disappearing in the next few chapters, as I did have America poof when his memory began to deteriorate.

If you have any questions about things, or corrections, please comment or message me and let me know.

I love all of you, and I love your reviews, and I love that you actually take the time to read my writing. It means a lot. :)

Have a lovely day!


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